Body Check (Blades Hockey, #4)

by Maria Luis

roll my eyes at his smooth baritone. “And second, what happened tonight is . . . was . . .” When words fail me, Jackson’s dark eyes soften. He ducks his head to dunk his toast through the egg yolk. “The stars aligned.” Swoon. Seriously, that shouldn’t sound as romantic as it does, but there you go. Jackson Carter is clearly determined to steal my breath away tonight, by orgasm or by other, no-less-panty-melting measures.

“I didn’t realize you believed in stars aligning or any of that.” His white teeth sink into a juicy, red strawberry. Chewing, swallowing, he then shrugs. “Truth is, I don’t.” “Then why would you bring them up now?” He meets my gaze head-on, his brown eyes unflinching. “It’s nearly impossible to believe in that sort of thing when your life is falling apart. Same goes with fate.” His thumb caresses the spine of the knife he’s holding. “We were breaking, Holls, and I was spending nights on our damn balcony making futile wishes on shooting stars.”

“But when I finally had something of my own to show, I may as well have been married to a ghost.”

I stick my hand out, palm up. Her gaze drops to the offering. “What am I supposed to do with that?” She doesn’t say the words with a single trace of heat, only genuine perplexity. I step in close, so that she’s got to lift her chin to maintain eye contact. “Take my hand, Holly.” Nose scrunching, her cheeks flush even brighter. “I’m sorry, but why should I? You demanded a confession and then you walked away. Holding hands is all about trust, and right now I’m thinking I’d trust a random person on the street more than—” I take her hand anyway, cutting off her rant by sliding my palm against hers. Our fingers tangle, palms kiss.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, “I’m so fuckin’ sorry for making you feel like I didn’t care. That I wasn’t proud of you and everything you’ve done. That you felt, even for one damn second, that you were taken for granted . . . and that when you were no longer there in reach every moment of the day, you weren’t worth my time anymore.”

“One week.” She blinks once, twice. “What?” Screw it. Caving to my need to touch her, I brush her lips with the pad of my thumb. “One week, Holls. Think about everything you need to—work it all out in your head and figure out if you want more from me than just tonight’s hookup. If you do, next weekend . . . next weekend, I’ve got a three-day stretch with nothing but me, my couch and TV in sight, and I’d rather spend that time with you. We’ll go somewhere.” “Go somewhere?” She laughs at that, the sound feminine and light. “Jackson, we can’t just . . . we can’t just leave the state.” Wanting to keep that half-smile curling her lips, I blatantly tease her. “Why not? You on house arrest or something?” I glance down at her feet. “No ankle monitor that I can see. Unless you got the invisible kind?”

I draw her up against my side, her small frame tiny against mine, and tap her chin to encourage her to look up toward the sky, too. “There she is,” I say, boisterous enough for her to hold her belly and continue to laugh. “Hold on, hold, gotta think about the right wish. Maybe somethin’ about my car forgetting about her defilement? Nah, she’ll have to learn about the birds and bees at some point.”

Almost got mauled by TMZ just now. Hunt: Harvey was there? Me: Who the hell is Harvey? Hunt: Levin. Harvey Levin. Dude’s in charge of the site/show/celebrity soul stealer. Beaumont: Fuck TMZ. Do you know how many times they showed my bare ass a few years back? On TV, on their website, on fucking Twitter. My ass had more hits than a Kardashian Instagram post. Cain: Mistake on their part. No one wants to see all the hair on those sweet cheeks of yours, Sin. Also, should I be asking which Kardashian you follow on IG? Or do you just want to take that one to the grave? Me: Please tell me you did not just tell Beaumont he’s got sweet cheeks. Beaumont: First of all, sir, my ass is smooth. No hair. Second, I have the best ass out of all you assholes. Setting the record straight, right here, right now. Harrison: All I hear are lies. Me: I’ve seen better asses. Beaumont’s isn’t even in the top 20. Holly: I’m willing to bet that I have the best ass in this entire group thread.

Sweetheart, there’s nothing I love more than cupping your tight ass and pressing you up against me. Beaumont: Did Carter just say he wants to cup my tight ass? Cain: **eating popcorn GIF** Harrison: Please tell me he was talking about Holly. Hunt: He’s not answering. He’s guilty. Totally was talking about Sin. Cain: 100% ^^^ Harrison: I’m screenshotting this shit right now. Blackmail, y’know? Holly: Jackson does like a smooth ass . . . No wonder he left me. Clearly, he was thinking about Andre—only then Andre married somebody else. #plottwist Beaumont: He lost his chance. I’m a one-woman kinda man. He’ll never have the opportunity to get between my sweet cheeks now. Hunt: Guys, Carter’s on TV. Channel 4. TMZ. Beaumont: Is he talking about my delicious rump? Hunt: 1) Don’t ever say that again. 2) TMZ is reporting that Carter went to Mass General for penis reconstructive surgery. Cain: . . . Harrison: Holy shit. For real? I’m turning it on now. Hunt: No, not for real. But can you imagine his face when he reads this thread? Me: I hate all of you. Except you, Holly. The next time I see you, be prepared to have your world rocked. Cain: Will this rocking take place post penis surgery? Asking on Holly’s behalf.

“I just had a moment,” he says. I lift a brow and wait. “Yup.” Nodding vigorously, he reaches out to squeeze Harrison’s arm again. “Muscular. Maybe even a little veiny. Now I know why my wife secretly has you as the screensaver on her cell phone.” Harrison’s eyes go wide as he splutters with laughter. “I’m sorry . . . what?” “It’s true.” Adam goes about fixing Harrison’s mic, then steps back to pick up his gear. “There she was giving birth to our firstborn child and her phone starts ringing. I pick it up, obviously, because whoever’s calling clearly wants to know the status of the delivery. I get off the phone and then bam! There you are in all of your shirtless glory. And ass—it was a side shot.” My gaze cuts from my sound mixer to the Blades’ goalie. At times like these, I generally pride myself on always having something worthwhile to say. But, holy cow, I’ve got nothing. Interview. Think of the interview! “So,” I drawl out, unease coating my tone like thick honey, “about those Blades . . .” But Adam isn’t done yet. He flicks his gaze over Carmen, who’s standing to his left, wide-eyed, video camera hoisted on her shoulder as she props one knee on the cushion of a seat. She looks to me and, to be quite honest, all I do is stare right back. Is this the moment where I’ll have to fire one of my favorite employees because he went crazy on a plane with America’s most beloved goalie? The plane dips again, almost as though it’s preparing me for the worst that’s yet to come, and...

“Oui.” Nodding, he smiles at Carmen and waves to the camera like he’s the goddamn Queen of England. He ruffles his dark hair, then tugs sharply on the lapel of his black suit. “I was once fucked by a puck.” Pure. Unforgiving. Silence. Blinking slowly, I lean my weight forward and lift one finger in the air. My mouth opens. Closes. Parts halfway. I mean, really, I’ve got no words here. “Henri, man, I—” My fingers curl in a fist that I bounce on my knee, once, twice. “I’m sorry, did you say that you were fucked by a puck?”

Collective groaning ensues, just as Holly asks, “Anyone else wondering how all those fish scales feel against a man’s . . . sensitive bits?” “Oh, c’mon, Mrs. Carter!” “My balls are itchy just thinking about it.” “Honestly, could be like a massage. I bet it’s a luxury in some parts of the world. Give a man a fish, and he’ll find some way to masturbate with it.”

“Gentlemen!” says Matt the Hard-Ass over the speaker system. “And two women—sorry, Carmen, Holly. Anyway, we’ll be starting our descent in approximately three minutes. One last answer for that commercial of yours, Ms. Carter. Perhaps the good Captain might do us the honor of responding to the question?”

“Turns out, Holly here thought my car belonged to the team’s goalie, who gave up four shots on the net. She’s always been passionate about hockey, and that’s officially the craziest thing a fan has ever done.”

“You,” she growls, and it’s such a cute attempt at being all aggressive and feisty that I grab her hand in mine and press a kiss to her palm. Then murmur, “On a scale of one to ten, how much do you want to throw me out of the plane right now?” Her nose scrunches in deliberation. “Twelve.” She tugs on her captured hand to no avail. “I’m at a twelve, which is the equivalent of someone’s mood after being force-fed anything you’ve cooked for at least three days in a row.”

“Tell me, Holls . . . did you wear this dress because you wanted me to spend the next hour admiring you in it?” I finger the thin strap that encircles her neck and dips down to her back, not missing the sharp lift of her shoulders as I play. “Or did you wear it because you wanted me to strip you naked?” “Neither.” Just like that, my limbs lock in place. I want what she wants, and I would never, ever push her past that. This woman . . . fuck, she means so much to me—more than she’ll probably ever realize—and I could never, in good conscious, take what she’s not offering. Even if it feels as though she’s just made a slapshot to my groin. Slowly, as not to spook her, I pull away. Keep it together, man. Don’t let her see how much you want this. Her small fingers wrapping around my wrist keep me in place, and her breathy voice damn-near makes me lose my mind. “I said neither, Jackson, because I don’t want to sit here and objectively be admired.” She tugs my hand until it’s gripping her hip, my fingers splayed along the upper curve of her ass. I suck in a deep breath. She smiles, then, and it’s pure seduction. It slays me with its flirtatiousness. Sabotages every hope that I’ve got still kicking around to do the gentlemanly thing and leave her be—to not drudge up all our old wounds and heartaches and all the damn love, simply so I can feel her against me again. When she speaks, it’s nothing but a purr that sets my skin aflame. “I didn’t wear it because I wanted to see it slung a...

There should be a handbook for this sort of thing: What to do When Your Ex-husband Makes You Come Three Times 101. Followed up by the highly requested sequel: Sleepover Protocol, The Divorcée Edition.

“Generally frowned upon,” I manage on a shuddered breath, “a big no-no.” “But not illegal?” “What?” My brain empties when all that cool air hits my bare backside. “No, not illegal—” “For the record, I’d sacrifice myself to a lifetime of bending over for soap if I got a little more time with you.” I’m not given any time to process that crazy statement before I’m flying—literally, flying—through the air and landing with a massive bounce on the mattress. The coils shriek in protest. “Jackson!” In that moment, I’m a naked acrobat who should have been fired on my first day on the job. My limbs flail this way and that, and really, I should have been less concerned about landing face-first on the floor and more worried about what my hundred-and-ten-pound frame has done to the bed frame. On the second bounce, the bed cracks! And on the third, it quite literally goes concave with me in the middle of the cavern. Butt cheeks burning from the abrupt crash landing, I swing my gaze toward Jackson and glare accusingly. “You broke the bed!” Only, the damn man is on his knees, hands on the ground, doubled over in laughter at my expense. “I can’t—” His handsome head falls forward, his laughter eating away at any leftover awkwardness infiltrating the room. “Oh, God, Holls. I’m so sorry, but your face when you went down . . .” “Jerk.” I huff out a breath, but it lacks any true heat. Already I feel laughter bubbling to the surface. “I can’t believe that just happened.” I flap my arms at my sid...

“C’mere, sweetheart. Your Knight in Naked Birthday Suit has arrived to save the day.”

“How’s the butt?” he asks, reaching down to massage one butt cheek and then the other. I snort into his hard chest. “Strong enough to crack a slat of wood in half.” “Imagine if it was an Olympic event—you’d place first.” “I’ve always wanted a gold medal.” “Now’s your chance to take what’s yours.”

Boston has its charm, don’t get me wrong, but the term “Masshole” is applicable because it’s the undeniable truth.

“You’ve always been a rule follower, sweetheart,” he says, his tone husky, “you sure that you know how to change the rules?” “Weren’t you just telling me two days ago how much trouble I am?” I rock my butt against his crotch, which is nestled up against my backside. “Don’t doubt my troublemaking prowess, Mr. Carter.” He grips my hips, pulling them sharply backward. “To a weekend of trouble.”

“To a weekend of messy love.”

If I listen hard enough, I can hear the ocean waves crashing on the beach. It calls to me like no other, probably from having grown up in a middle of a state where muddy rivers were our only water source.

“Go on, O Captain my Captain.”

I swallow, hard, and mutter, “The second type of adrenaline high.” I sink one hand under the hem of her T-shirt solely so I can feel her naked skin. “A junkie who knows what’s coming next. It’s choreography that’s been done before.” For fourteen years, it’s a choreography I’ve only ever known with Holly. My gaze latches on to the rise and fall of her chest. “The thrill isn’t in the unknown but in the familiar, the sense that you’re coming home.”

Jackson’s silence breaks with the sound of his chair scraping back over the stone floor. He drags the damn thing to my side of the table, turning it toward me so that when he sits down, he’s effectively straddling my chair. He’s shielding me from anyone who might be watching. The thought alone makes me want to hug him. “Keep goin’,” he rasps, one hand coming to meet mine on the table again. He twines our fingers together. It feels so wrong to look at our clasped hands and see that our ring fingers are bare. “I’m here, sweetheart.”

Much to my chagrin, Carl doesn’t take center stage, apparently more content to remain in the background and hum the melodies. Unfortunately, both Jackson and I are completely tone-deaf and only know half of the words. I try to make up for it by bringing in my old dance skills and prancing about the makeshift stage—we’re standing on a rug, literally—while all eyes are glued on us. Jackson, for all of his skills on the ice, might as well be a tree. He sways a little, mic close to his mouth, and watches the ceiling like he keeps hoping it’ll open up and drop down on him. His teammates are beside themselves. Beaumont throws dollar bills at us, hollering for Jackson to sing louder for the peeps in the back of the crowd. Hunt has Gwen, his wife and my publicist, clutched to him as he twirls her around. Even Coach Hall is laughing at his captain’s expense. “All for the fans,” Jackson had muttered before Celine came blasting over the loudspeakers.

The tense lines in his face break. I coast my palm over his chest, swinging my hips. My gaze meets his, and this time, I’m the one issuing the dare, the challenge. “Your turn, Cap. Sing to me.”

The grand finale comes with a crack in his voice and a dramatic wiggle of his hips. I laugh so hard that I have tears gathering in my eyes. I laugh so hard that when the bartender takes mercy on us all and switches the music off mid-word, cutting Jackson off, I double over and breathe through my nose before I pass out from sheer joy overload.

I lock my feet in place, tap on Holly’s name, and wait. And wait. And fucking wait some more until— “Hello?” comes her sweet voice over the line, and my knees nearly collapse with relief. “Jackson?” My voice emerges as a rasp, “I need you.” I slam my lids shut and tilt my face up like I’m going to wish on a fake shooting star in the middle of a damn hospital. “I’m at Mass General. Dr. Mebowitz—he’s in neuropathology.” Her panicked gasp echoes in my ears, and I rush to add, “I’m okay. I mean, I’m not. But it’s not . . . it’s not an accident.” I swallow thickly, the emotions tangling in my throat as the anxiety latches onto my lungs. “I need you here with me, Holls. Fuck, I—I need you.” “I’m coming. Whatever it is, I’m there, okay?” There’s the sound of a door slamming shut and jangling keys. “I’ll be there in fifteen—in the car now. I love you, Jackson. I love you so damn much.”

My ass collides with the same chair I took last time, and I wait. For whatever news Dr. Mebowitz is about to hand over. For the woman I love more than life itself to get here and take my hand. For my life as a hockey player—as captain of the Blades—to come crashing to an end.

We don’t need words, not in this moment. To anyone else, I’d have no doubt that they’d take one look at him and see the Jackson Carter he’s always portrayed to the world: formidable, unshakable, with confidence that borders the line of arrogance. But I know him, and what I read in his dark eyes shatters me. Oh, Jackson.

With nothing to wipe them dry with, I settle for accepting that this is who I am right now: a woman so in love with a man that she’ll drop everything, everything, to be his knight in shining armor.